


Somewhere

by Zimra



Series: I Wish the Wars Were All Over [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Beleriand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man called Balan must cope with the death of his father and take his place as leader of their people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Written for House of Bëor Week on Tumblr.
> 
> Balan is Bëor's original name. Beren is the name I gave to his father in my headcanon, because then the names of both Bëor's sons are combinations of his name and his father's (Belen, Baran).

They buried his father at the top of a small hill. Balan had helped three other men carry Beren’s body on a stretcher, then pile stones over him until they formed a mound. The ground here was too hard and cold to dig a proper grave this time of year, and a pyre might attract unwanted attention. He had conducted the rest of the ceremony before the hundreds of people who crowded around the hill to pay their respects and to observe the quiet, hard-eyed young man who would be their leader now. They had known him since birth, but somehow it was different now - he was different.

Everyone had gone now, but Balan remained standing by the pile of stones, the frigid air making the joints in his hands stiffen. He remembered another cold, windy day almost a decade ago, when he had knelt beside the grave of his first child and struggled not to cry. Annir had still been too weak to leave her bed, and they had warned him not to hope that she would live. He remembered his father’s solemn, weathered face, his hand resting heavily on Balan’s shoulder in the silence. 

Now it was Annir who stood beside him at the grave, holding their month-old son Belen in her arms. The infant was wrapped securely in the warmest blankets they had, and little Baran huddled against his mother’s side, clutching her skirt with one chubby hand. Balan saw that the child was shivering; with a pang of guilt, he bent down and scooped him up, stroking the boy’s back as Baran wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s neck and buried his face in his cloak. 

Baran was his oldest living son, but there had been four children before him. The first and second a girl and a boy, neither surviving beyond their first week of life; the fourth, a boy, born dead. The third, a girl, had lived long enough to be named, only to sicken and die two years later.

“Balan,” Annir said, and he turned to look at her, startled. “You’ll have to leave him sometime. We can’t stay here forever.” His wife’s tone was one of gentle reproach.

“Of course not,” he said, in a flat, emotionless voice. “It’s too cold to be standing out here - we should take the little ones inside.” That hadn’t been what she meant, and they both knew it, but Annir just nodded and followed him as he turned his back on the grave and walked away.

Their wooden dwelling was as flimsy and temporary as the other houses, and there was little about it to suggest that it belonged to a leader. It seemed even emptier without Beren there, and he had been the last remaining member of Balan’s family. _How did this house get so empty?_

While Annir sat down and began to nurse the baby, Balan tucked Baran, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, into bed. The cold had turned the boy’s cheeks slightly red, and the wind had ruffled his thick black hair, but he slept peacefully with one hand curled around the edge of the blanket. Balan sat beside him and watched the silent, infinitesimal rise and fall of his son’s chest, his own heart seeming to stop for a moment during the gaps between each breath.

He was deep in thought when the baby’s cries startled him back to the present, and he watched as Annir stood and paced slowly across the room, trying to soothe him. She looked exhausted, and Balan wondered when she had last slept - there were shadows under her eyes and her long dark braid was beginning to fray. 

He could not remember when he last slept, either, but he felt restless rather than tired. 

“Here, let me take him,” Balan said, standing and going to her side.

Annir looked at him and sighed, then handed over the child and took the seat next to her older son. She watched Balan as he paced back and forth just as she had moments ago.

“We have to leave as soon as we can,” she said, watching him carefully for his reaction. Balan did not look at her, keeping his gaze focused on the child in his arms. “The raiders could come back at any time. You should order everyone to pack up as soon as they can, and move south-”

“No,” Balan said, looking up at her at last. His eyes were so bright they looked almost feverish, and she realized that he was holding back tears. “These raiders came from the north, and I doubt they retreated far. If we go south, they’ll be able to find us again. And we’re not turning back the way we came.” He shook his head stubbornly. “We’ll keep heading west, like my father wanted to. You’ve heard the stories - there are powers in the west, great cities with the strength to keep the evils of these lands at bay.”

Annir sat silently for a moment, gently brushing Baran’s hair out of his face. Then she said, “But what if they’re just stories? What if we go west and find that it’s no different from anywhere else we’ve been?”

For a moment Balan felt as cold as he had at the grave. He noticed that little Belen had fallen asleep in his arms, and went to the corner to lay the child in his cradle. Then he returned to sit on the side of the bed beside his wife. 

“Annir, we can’t keep running forever,” he said, taking her hands and holding them so tightly it almost hurt. “There must be somewhere we can live without being hunted. If there’s not…” he couldn’t continue, could only stare down at his sleeping son. 

His wife pulled one of her hands out of his grasp and ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s late - you should get some rest.” 

He knew this was all the reassurance he would get; Annir wasn’t one to say what she did not mean. And she was right.


End file.
